"Before you cross the street
Take my hand
Life is what happens to you while you're busy making other plans"
"Beautiful Boy" - John Lennon
11 August 1999
Atlanta, Georgia
Atlanta-Fulton Public Library
One of the first things his teacher, Luca Bianchi, had told Jonathan Fairbanks was that knowledge was power. Fairbanks strove for that power at every opportunity. Whatever new discovery there was in the world, Fairbanks was never satisfied until he understood it completely.
Today it hit rather close to home; the immortality gene. A group of scientists in London had managed to isolate what they termed the 'Immortality gene' in flies, allowing them to regenerate body parts as parts grew old and weak, or were injured. This enabled the flies to lengthen their lives by a third. Scientists were predicting that within twenty-five years, they would have isolated this gene in humans, increasing average life spans from seventy or so years to upwards of one hundred-twenty.
Fairbanks had researched the project for hours, reading and re-reading the legal and medical papers on the subject, some studies going back as far as the turn of the century. The idea of immortality had fascinated man since before the beginning of Christianity. Perhaps somewhere in that scientific heap was the meaning of life - the meaning of immortal life.
Fairbanks sighed and rubbed his eyes wearily. The silence of the library finally penetrated his brain and he looked about him absently. When he had last looked up, the tables around him had been filled with a various assortment of people; college and university students hoping for a jump on their classes; authors and would-be authors researching projects and stories. Members of the general public who, like Fairbanks, just had a thirst for knowledge. Now, he was the only one remaining.
The Immortal closed the books in front of him and stacked them neatly in the middle of the table. He tossed his leather-bound journal into his backpack and grabbed his jacket. Nodding to Ms. Lansky, the librarian, he headed outside.
He had spent longer than intended in the library. It was still light but a new moon hinted from behind the clouds. Fairbanks groaned softly, once again cursing the powers that be that hadn't graced him with two more years of mortal life before beginning his Immortal one. At the physical age of sixteen, he could have driven a car through town to get back home. At fourteen, he was condemned to foot, bus, taxi or some other such mode of transportation, and always would be. But at least someone had the foresight and intelligence to create rollerblades. Fairbanks sat on the bench conveniently located outside the library and pulled the skates from his large backpack.
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It had taken Heinrich Gruber several weeks to convince Natalie Lansky that he was serious about taking her out to dinner. At first, she had laughed him off, shaking her head and wondering aloud why a multi-billionaire would want to spend time with a lowly librarian. Finally, he had managed to elicit a yes from the young, blonde woman, assuring her that he would make reservations at a modestly elegant restaurant, and not, in her words, "some snobby little place that serves a spoonful of mush and charges a hundred dollars to do so." The fact that the modest little place in question required reservations six months in advance and was located beside the Seine in Paris was something he hoped would surprise her. The private plane he had on standby would get them there in record time, as well.
Gruber pulled the BMW smoothly into a parking spot a half block down from the library entrance. He hesitated a moment, checking his reflection in the mirror, then exited the car. The presence swirled over him immediately. His head swiveled - left, right, left again. The only other body on the street appeared to be a dark-haired kid in the process of putting on rollerblades. But that kid was staring at him with the same intensity with which he was scanning the street. Reaching into his back seat, Gruber carefully removed his Toledo Salamanga saber. Holding it close to his body, he walked carefully toward the kid.
Rolling his eyes and sighing, Fairbanks pulled a short, curved wakizashi sword from inside his backpack. Hastily, he pulled the rollerblades off his feet. Fighting barefoot was not something he liked to do, but it wouldn't be the first time.
Heinrich Gruber assessed the Immortal in front of him, making the mistake of many before him. The body was that of a child. How much trouble could it be to take the head of a child? Gruber glanced quickly at his Rolex. 5:52 p.m. He had eight minutes before Natalie was free for the evening. Quite long enough, he thought, to put this Immortal child out of its misery.
"There is a deserted lot behind the library. I suggest we take our discussion there," he suggested.
Fairbanks stared at him for a brief moment, face blank, then he smiled and shrugged. The two men walked warily, side by side, neither one quite trusting the other. Once there, they turned to face each other, neither speaking.
In a move so quick Fairbanks almost missed it, Gruber's blade came out of its scabbard and across in a cutting arc that would have opened his belly if he had been a heartbeat slower to react. Fairbanks drew the wakizashi in time to block the slash, the resulting sound of steel on steel sending chills down the spines of both Immortals, reinforcing that neither could afford to make the smallest of mistakes. Here there were no rules, no judges, no expectation of conduct. In the end, there would be no quarter given.
Metal bit into metal again, both men lunging, thrusting, attacking, probing for an opening or a weakness. Crouched low, and drawing on all of his strength, Fairbanks hurled himself through the air like a human catapult. He caught Gruber by the shoulders, crashing them both into a metal garbage container. A jagged piece of metal gouged Fairbanks' elbow to the bone, his hand becoming slick with his own blood.
Gruber raised his sword, screaming obscenities as his Salamanga carved a wicked slice through the air. Fairbanks rolled to one side, Gruber's blade narrowly missing his throat and clanging loudly on the metal bin. He rolled again, staggering to his feet, desperately trying to retain his grasp on the blood slicked handle of the wakizashi. Sensing weakness in his opponent, Gruber grinned wickedly and advanced. A bright sliver of steel came stinging through the air and the grin left Gruber's face. He looked down at his own blood bubbling from the open wound on his thigh. Fairbanks attacked again with a killer's sense, slashing an arm this time, then a glancing blow across the belly.
Gruber tried vainly to deflect the attacks, willing his damaged arm and leg to heal quickly. They did, but not quickly enough. He heard the soft hiss of rushing air and his eyes flickered in disbelief. A look of utter incomprehension and horror crossed his face, and a groping movement by his hands as if they could not accept the fact that his head was no longer attached to his shoulders. He dropped to his knees, his head hitting the pavement before his body did.
Fairbanks' eyes closed briefly, slamming open again a scant instant before the Quickening hit him. Neither he nor Gruber had noticed the back door of the library open, nor had they seen the spectator to their deadly encounter.
"Just what in the bloody hell is going on?"
The words and the voice of Natalie Lansky echoed through Jonathan Fairbanks' head as the Quickening took hold and the soul of Heinrich Gruber melded into his.
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12 August 1999
Atlanta, Georgia
Ashton Residence
Fairbanks slept in the next morning. Something about injuries and Quickenings always seemed to make him hungry and tired. Add to that the fact that he was a teenager in body and had the wildfire metabolism and urge of sleep of all fourteen-year old boys and he was pretty much always hungry or wanting a nap. Well, he knew he couldn't sleep all day and keep up his peak fitness - or his killer physique, if the looks from the girls and some of the boys said anything - if he slept all day. A little extra sleep after a Quickening wouldn't hurt, though.
It was shortly at ten when Fairbanks came downstairs. He made his way straight to the kitchen to raid the refrigerator for whatever may have been leftover from breakfast earlier. The nine hundred twenty square meter home owned by his Immortal friend and mentor, David Ashton, also had the benefit of a small house staff, including an excellent young chef by the name of Bryce McFarland. Even the dregs left from a three-hours-ago breakfast would be superb. Treading quietly into the kitchen in only his usual sleeping attire of a pair of grey flannel pajama shorts, Fairbanks opened the fridge and peered inside. He frowned. There was nothing new since yesterday. He stood up.
"Ahem," he heard softly to his left. He looked over to see a grinning McFarland standing there, his hands crossed in front of him.
"I'm afraid Mr. Ashton had his usual of eggs, buttered toast, breakfast steak, sliced tomatoes, orange slices, and coffee this morning. If you would care to wait a few minutes, perhaps with a glass of juice, I can prepare your usual pancakes, eggs, and blackberries. It will just take a few minutes."
Fairbanks gave the chef a bright grin and a thumbs-up. "That would be awesome, Bryce. Would you mind doubling the eggs and adding some cheese to them? I've rather taken to that American tradition."
"Certainly," replied McFarland, still grinning.
Fairbanks, his black hair awry, reached back inside the refrigerator and pulled out a carafe of mango juice which McFarland kept freshly squeezed for him and poured a glass. Flashing another smile at the chef, he sauntered out of the kitchen in search of Ashton.
He found the man where he expected him, in his home office. He just had to use his nose and follow the scent of the cigar smoldering in between the Minoan's fingers as he chatted on the phone. Wandering into the office, Fairbanks eased himself onto the nearby couch and listened silently as he sipped his juice.
"Yes, Tony, I know you're concerned about the growing trend this year." Ashton paused to listen to the speaker on his desk. Fairbanks recognized the voice as the Prime Minister of England coming from the speaker on Ashton's desk phone. He smiled.
"And this proposal of yours, David, you're saying can help us cut down on the growing terrorist threat? What you're asking is unprecedented. My God, it's unheard of."
"That's exactly why it will work, Tony. Remember all those times when you've said your hands were tied and you could do nothing about any of those attacks? Well, in this case, you can, and completely off the record."
"And if the SoD (Secretary of Defence) or the public finds out about it?"
"For the first, he's your man and you have control of him. I say bring him in on it, in fact. For the other, we're just a rogue group of civilian defense contractors acting on our own. You're in the clear. Leave that sort of heat for me to deal with. You and your people will have complete deniability."
"And what about the partial funding you're requesting as part of this project?"
"You have all kinds of black operations in your defense budget, Tony. This will be another of them. Again, complete deniability. Even the SoD will support you on that."
"Alright, David, you've convinced me. When can we meet privately and work out the details?"
"I'm going to be there in a few weeks. I'll keep you updated. It won't be long."
"And you're sure that Bill won't be stepping in and agreeing to this proposal first?"
"No chance. He expressed no interest whatsoever. I stopped talking with him months ago. He can't stop me from convincing some of his soldiers to join me if you sign off on the deal, but he's not going to step on your toes and signing first."
"Good to know, David. I'll be waiting to hear from you."
"Thank you, Tony. We'll talk soon."
"Goodbye, David. And thank you."
"Goodbye, Tony."
"Rubbing elbows with bigwigs again, David?" asked Fairbanks as he set his empty glass on a small table near the couch.
Ashton chuckled and took a quick puff from his cigar before answering. "Just making plans for the future. I've been doing the stock market thing for twenty years now and across three separate identities and locations. It's time to try something else."
"And what's that?"
"In short, a private military corporation. It will test new military equipment for defense corporations and provide feedback on that equipment. It will also have another side which engages in executive protection, intelligence gathering, and direct action."
Fairbanks wasn't too surprised by the idea. After four thousand years of life, there was not much in the way of business that Ashton had not tried. He pointed at the speaker. "That's the part he's worried about, I guess."
Ashton grinned. "Yes. The direct action element will be composed partly of soldiers on loan from the British and American armies as well as civilians chosen by myself. It will be a very special group of people."
"If you can get him to sign off on it, that is."
"That's the crux of it, yes," said Ashton, taking another pull from his cigar. "I'm asking for some very specific terms for it all which are, of course, quite beneficial to the company and all of its members. That's partially where he is finding his sticking points, mainly in a lot of tax breaks for the employees. He's getting over those points, though. It's just a matter of time."
"So, when he does agree, that means we'll be moving back to England?"
Ashton shrugged. "That's a given. It will be quite difficult to manage such an affair from anywhere else." The Minoan's blue eyes flashed at the boy. "You'll be going back next year anyway, if memory serves."
Fairbanks' jaw dropped. "I was hoping you'd forgotten about that."
"Me? Forget?" Ashton chuckled again.
"You're right. You never forget." Fairbanks ran a hand through his uncombed hair. "I have a lost bet to repay."
"Yes, you do," replied Ashton, laughter racking his body.
"You don't have to enjoy it so much," countered Fairbanks.
"Oh, but I do," answered Ashton. "I've been looking forward to this for over a year now."
In 1998, Jonny Fairbanks, who prided himself on being a ladies boy, had been in a club with Ashton and had declared to his friend that he could seduce any woman he wanted. Ashton had immediately taken him up on the challenge. On the offer of a month-long trip to Japan, Ashton had pointed out a lusciously attractive lady nearby and suggested Fairbanks try his wiles on her. The cost if he failed, however, was Fairbanks would apply to and attend England's prestigious Eton College for two years - without getting expelled. Try as he might and after many signals that he might be close to doing so, Fairbanks could not woo the pretty lady. He ultimately gave up. Unbeknownst to him at the time, the lady, Cassandra Maddox, was a friend of Ashton's and, by unspoken communication from him, knew to resist Fairbanks no matter what. She later reported to both of them that it was great fun.
"That was a nasty trick, by the way," complained Fairbanks.
"But oh so much fun," replied Ashton, "and worth every second of it."
Remembering his food, Fairbanks stood and picked up his glass. Before walking out, he asked, "Have you heard from Darren lately? He's been on one of his silent spells again."
Ashton smirked and dropped his cigar in an ashtray. "No, not a peep of late. I'll have to check on him. The last I heard, he was somewhere in Spain working as an operator in a print shop. He said it kept him humble and that I should try it sometime."
"Working in a print shop or being humble?"
"Both," laughed Ashton as his phone rang. Fairbanks chuckled and walked out. He heard Ashton answer.
"Oh, Kat. Hello. It's been years. How are you?" Then the man's voice got quieter. Fairbanks kept walking. Pancakes awaited him.
